The escape route
by Mary Zrw2800
Summary: Where else to seek help if it's forbidden to run to friends and family? Who to ask for shelter when there are armed gangs on the tail?
1. A coverage

Booth was running and running, without turning back. He heard squish footsteps behind him, the rustling of wheels approaching at great speed; he understood that _they_ were chasing him and they wouldn't retreat until the end, until they would make him - the fed who had dug into the slaver - vanish from the earth. All his body was covered with bruises and lacerations after they have beaten him at the car; his right hand, back and even torso seemed cut by knife: they were trying to restrict him, but he escaped anyway.

He dropped a smashed stolen motorcycle few districts away from here, hoping to let them on a wild goose chase, but they were tracing him too meticulously to buy that. There weren't things that could counted as a problem for such a well-organized crime cell.

The breath became heavy and fitful. Even some war-experienced ex-military like Booth needed a timeout. But stopping was a bad, wrong idea. Seeley was dashing into the last place where he would like to hide, but circumstances weren't let him pick and choose in finding shelter. Thanks God he could navigate the terrain and remembered splendidly the address he was looking for, although he was there only once or twice.

There weren't a lot of occasions on his practice when he got totally defenseless, but this night was exactly like this. He was suffering from a disgusting feeling of his own desperation, however, he could do nothing with it but go ahead in a last ditch effort, tensing every cell of his wounded body.

The turn, then another one, and after straight through the bushes. He had finally reached a right threshold: there was fully dark around; even a scruffy terrace lamp didn't shine with its vile tan light. The agent lean on the door, knocked persistently and began to wait, counting seconds, praying to anyone that people chasing him delayed at least for a minute or two.

It became audible as someone descended the stairs, the light in the hall emerged, and as soon as the door opened the federal agent crashed inside with a savage shouting: "Close it!", with petrified eyes wide-opened in horror, wet and buttered. His arms were shaking, and he was swaying from side to side; his legs barely held him.

The house's owner listened to his advice, but did it silently and without any fuss. He was gazing at his injured guest, showing no mercy, even annoyed, not going to talk first. But he got from him nothing apart from gasps and wheezing, so he had to change the tactic:

"Bad day, agent Booth?"

"Pelant..." he felt spasms of vomiting because of a long exhausting running on the autumn sleet and from how hard was he beaten in the stomach; "Not the time..."

* * *

Standing face to face with the almost inevitable death, when they drove him to the middle of nowhere with a sack on his head, he connected all his forces, pushed out his kidnappers, not having let them tie him up, reached for the driver to the touch, grabbed him and broke his neck at once. The car at middle speeds got off the road — the crash on a stone fense wasn't pleasant, but all its consequences Seeley noticed later, hurtling in the dark on someone's stolen motorcycle: everything was flickering in front of his sight, his head was spinning and nausea stocked across his throat. He has had literally a few seconds to resist and he took his chance: he pulled off the sack and confronted two big guys sitting next to him. He didn't have any weapon, because his gun was confiscated and taken out, so he had to fight. Booth hit one of them the elbow in the face, the second one — his head to his knee, and after that he opened the car door and fell on the wet, cold, dirty October grass, but he got up quickly and rushed forward for the hills.

He hasn't realized yet where he was, he saw only a remote industrial area, and no one in their sane mind would come up with the idea to go there willingly. He has almost lost a hope for escaping this place before he would be captured, but he saw a road in front of him all at once, a narrow dark two-lane precinct of the highway. He heard a motor roaring far away, but it was getting closer while he moved towards it. And suddenly headlights appeared - it was a motorcycle.

Having not invented anything better, the agent rushed right under the wheels: it sounded better to die in the crash than the chasers would finish him. The driver who saw a man on the road in the last moment, turned the steering wheel; at high speeds, the motorcycle hardly tipped over to the left and fell to its side, screeching along the asphalt with a rattle and sparks. The guy was thrown out of the seat, the vest and helmet saved his life, but he got unconscious owing to the heavy header, and he was laying motionless at the roadside. Seeley managed to check the pulse on his neck, and then, excusing himself in the void, he lifted the motorcycle from the ground, straightened the steering wheel and pressed the gas. His deed didn't fit into the framework of something noble, but each coin has had two sides. Escaping was never Booth's favorite trick, especially in such a pathetic way, however, sometimes there were no other options: it was more important to make it wiser, not braver, to survive and bring the investigation to the end.

He didn't imagine where this path would lead him, but, honestly speaking, he didn't care. Decisions came into his mind too quickly for him to anticipate the consequences. For example, the fact that his chasers would release all their fury on the young driver-guy who got a bullet in his forehead without regaining consciousness. However, Booth hasn't known about it, so his confidence hasn't shaken.

As it turned out, he was almost on the periphery of Washington, about forty minutes from the downtown. He began to recall everything, any near addresses of his acquaintances, friends and comrades, and has already chosen the one when he saw a car rushing along his tracks in a rear-view mirror, a powerful jeep, rather old model. It seemed that the information he obtained was completely true and the gang of slave traders had pawns everywhere. The willing to go to his friends disappeared instantly: even being inadequate, he was aware he shouldn't have involved others in his mortally dangerous problems. But what about enemies? An absurd idea flashed in his mind, imposed by a state of shock, an adrenaline thunder, but he had nothing to lose.

* * *

"You don't have any rights to be here, agent Booth, if you don't have a warrant. Thirty seconds, or I will ask you to leave."

Seeley told him not to lean back against the door: the pursuers, probably, wouldn't want to waste their time and would shoot the only house on the street where the light was on at such a late hour.

"Have they got a fire weapon? Really?" Christopher was getting mad, having changed his voice tone; "Who do you want to sic on me? It's too dangerous for you to go home, so you decided to show up my address to every bastard who wants to kill you, right? I already have a huge bunch of problems because of you, but you brought another one, another deadly one."

He made his face full of disdain, as if he wasn't noticing wounds, fresh injuries, a blood mingled with mud. But he actually didn't care: he hated Booth. The root cause of their putative rivalry had its origins deep in personal. Brennan has loved Seeley to the narrow of her bones, but she flinched in aversion every time she heard about Pelant. So the criminal was always in a good mood to deal with him, painfully and sophisticated, but not when he came to his house, asking for help. Not when well-armed guys would appear at his doorstep any moment now, ready to finish the agent who had known as someone invulnerable.

"I knew it was a stupid idea," the fed cleaned his throat, wiped his mouth and hobbled away.

"Exactly."

"Sorry for bothering you."

"Wait, hey, are you serious?" Christopher moved his hand across the door when realized he was really about to leave; "They'll shoot you immediately."

And he had nothing against it, but circumstances didn't satisfy him whatsoever. At first, there were no guarantees that pursuers would be limited to killing Booth and wouldn't shot Pelant as well. They wouldn't get the hang of this if they'd suspect any link between them. Secondly, even if it would be all right and the criminal stayed alive, how would he explain this awful situation with Seeley's murder to the other feds, to Brennan?

Having chosen Christopher as a coverage, Booth, without realizing, automatically deprived him of the possibility of rejection.

"Yes, they will. So why are you not smiling? I'm not going to beg you. Now let me go, just let me die without your muzzle in front of my eyes," he pushed his hand away, but Pelant rushed forward and appeared between him and the exit, having hit his back on the doorknob:

"Nope, you're not leaving."

"Seriously?" he was trying to look at him, but his sight was shifting aside on its own. He got strongly jolted during the accident; "I don't need your handouts."

"Rid me of necessity to explain Brennan how did your body appear on my doorstep. And... forget all I've told you."

Having stayed without any support, Booth began to tumble forward, so Christopher has to pick him up and take him back to the equilibrium.

Something rustled at the backyard. Someone, to be more specific. The headlights blinked at the window. Guys from the gang were reaching them, but for some reason their attention was drawn by thuds from the opposite house. The criminal knew it was an irritating neighbor's dog who's always digging holes nocturnal, but it gave a little more time.

"Let's go upstairs, and not a sound," Pelant whispered quietly, menacing, having grabbed Booth's cheekbones, having made him focus on what he was saying: "_Or we both are dead_."


	2. ill-wishers

An unkind knock didn't take long: Pelant has barely could wipe out blood and mud stains from the floor, stairs and even walls, hastily, then he lay on the sofa with a strained-relaxed look, grabbed the first journal from the table, when the visitors emerged on his threshold. Christopher didn't feel anxiety frequently, but this situation made his guts tied because of the tremendous unexpected. It was impossible to predict further developments, so many inner and external factors influenced on them.

Seeley has creeped upstairs by then; he pushed the door and fell down the floor. He hasn't had enough forces to stand up. Something was wrong: he couldn't realize why he was feeling so faint, because all his injuries were superficial, but his condition was getting worse every second exponentially. Then he turned his head hardly and didn't understand at first why there was so much blood around him. So far he was running, escaping, resisting, he made sure under the power of disturbing neurotransmitters that his cuts were the most serious problem of his. However, actually these cuts were deeper, and his right arm seemed ragged to the ulna, but the mud in his lacerations caused deadly trouble. He was enduring from fever, tiredness, the outflow of adrenaline with a painful agony — all came down on him, so he couldn't bear it anymore. Booth dropped his head, made a rustling, faded groan, closed his eyes and began to lose consciousness, hearing like through the fog that someone knocked the door downstairs, and muffled voices appeared.

"Good evening, gentlemen, how can I help you?" Pelant stood opposite the visitors in his home clothes, his pose cheeky enough; he moved his left leg forward to mark the presence of the tracker on his ankle; "If you guys are feds, I'm not going to talk without my lawyer, especially at this late hour."

There were two men in front of him, different in height, appearance and frame. Not a full contrasts, of course, because they both were wiry treacherous thugs, but they looked queerly anyway. They kept their jackets closed, hiding a weapon on their waists. Their expensive leather shoes were covered with sleet to the bootlaces. However, these guys inflicted confidence and brisk, despite their incriminating dyspnea.

Fortunately, there was completely dark on the terrace: it peeled off the traces of fugitive's hands and boots. When the light from the hall started to illuminate ill-wishers' legs, they had no doubt that traces belonged to them.

"We are not FBI," one of them began, checking ambiance. He didn't add any other specific information; "We're looking for a high man, about forty, dressed in the suit, but he badly injured at this moment."

Christopher frowned and pretended that he was musing and recalling tensely. Actually he was thinking, but only about how to make them take his word for there wasn't any half-dead federal agents in his house, particularly in the bedroom upstairs.

"Many strangers hang around here, not the most quiet district. May I ask you what's going on, gentlemen?"

The second guy who kept silent stared at Pelant. His dull face full of surprise mixed with dismay.

"We're afraid he can accidentally harm himself in his condition, as he's already done before," the man was continuing lying; "Did you hear him knocking, asking, I don't know... for help or something insane? Maybe you saw him from the window?"

"Honestly speaking, you are the first who came to my house in the last month," he noticed a car near the house, it's headlights got off. It seemed like there was one more person inside apart from the driver, and it seemed like he held a vending machine in his hand.

_"God save!" the criminal exclaimed inwardly. He was ready to become a believer if he would get them tangled, if he wouldn't die at least. He didn't want to be killed that way, he wasn't ready. All his arrogant antics served just to make a provocative statement, to underline his evil genius, but he wasn't going to leave this world. _

"Insomnia?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's about 2 a.m now, but you're awake. Are you nocturnal?" the man gazed at him mockingly, watching closely every change in his facial expression, but Christopher could control himself as brilliant as no one. He leaned on the doorway and responded:

"You can name it so," an eerie smile; "Do you want a short excursion?"

"We're wasting our time here," the second guy interrupted, his voice sounded nervous, filled with fear; "Anyone, but this agent is definitely not here"

He finished and stopped, having figured out he said unnecessary things, especially he should've kept his mouth shut during the conversation with a guy suspected in a number of murders. He recognized him from the morning news report he glimpsed about two weeks ago, but his memory refreshed instantly when he saw the criminal in real.

The first man became fury disproportionately, ready to shot his 'coworker' right now, but Pelant drew his attention to himself.

"The federal agent? Not agent Booth, by chance?" his sight flamed in excitement, even his voice started to quiver as hard as he's had to clean his throat - he disguised a fuss overhead with his cough, cursing barely-alive Seeley.

"So, is he here?" the thug wasn't mad anymore, he was interested; "Booth. We really need him. And we still can solve the problem peacefully."

"If he was here, I would be glad to invite you to see his inside-out guts, to how the pieces of his scruffy flesh would swing down from his fractured bones," Christopher has almost got confused, but imagined how to get their dialogue back on track and make an extremely horrid impression.

Guys looked at each other, and the first man clutched his jacket jumpy. He has never heard about Pelant or his crimes before, but he understood perfectly well that he was standing face to face with a sick psychopath for now. And it drove him in terror more than somewhat, although he was an armed fearless gangster.

"So please give me a favor," Christopher was escalating, enjoying their upheaval; "If you find him, bring him to me. I promise I'll let you observe how I skin him alive, maybe I'll let you participate."

It took him a lot of efforts to maintain his physiognomy genuinely frightening and not to burst out laughing at their dumbfounded appearance. He understood he looked damn maniacal, and he loved it.

"I'll ask you to forgive me, gentlemen, the deal is I can't leave this house," he shook his leg in case they still hadn't noticed a tracker; "Otherwise, I would have done it myself: turned Booth inside out and nailed him to the boards, like a hunting trophy. Perhaps the best of my trophies. Want to see the others?" he gave a passageway to them, inviting to enter, but no one supported his initiative.

"You're sick, man" the first guy switched his tone sharply from disdain to awareness and started to retreat. His willing to debrief him disappeared immediately: such an insane psycho wouldn't ever save someone.

"Not more than you are," the criminal was about to answer, but changed his mind and kept silent. He got them out of his own house gently, having made sure that there was no more question to him, then closed the door and exhaled calmly, still forcing himself not to laugh. He felt himself full of satisfaction and pride due to his breakneck imagination and his fake but realistic tranquility.

He didn't get upstairs right away. At first he poured some water in the kitchen, roamed along the living room for no reason, sat on the sofa, - in a word, he had been creating a fake vision of his saturate activity for about ten minutes, but when the car went off far enough, he glimpsed at the window gingerly, ensured that the menace was gone, and after he decided to find out how was Booth keeping up.

"I hope you heard how I've covered your ass," Pelant stepped into the bedroom with these victorious words, but froze, having seen Seeley was laying on his stomach like a flat, absolutely motionlessly.

The criminal sighed disappointingly and went closer. He kneeled next to him and turned him carefully on his back to see his face coated with lacerations, bruises and swilling in the mandible. Probably, they beat him there to neutralize.

"You can't overpower them all, Booth," Pelant said aloud and touched his cheek, then his neck.

His skin was burning, a bit sticky from blood and sweat, but still alive, _sensitive to pain_.

"If I was in a place of you and came to your house asking for help, what would you do? You would get me out, wouldn't you?" he clutched the palm of his hand, but not to the point of completely depriving him of oxygen. There wasn't a hint of compassion in his eyes; "You would never help me. And why I'm the only one who see you're not so simple?" he leaned forward, watching closely in occasion he would open his eyes, but he didn't; "Not so bad as me, but worse than the others think."

Pelant should've done nothing to kill him, but wait for a while. Seeley would inevitably die without emergency treatment, would die because of infection and fever without waking up. But it wasn't interesting at all. Too easy for Christopher who have already drew in his mind how would he torture him, much more spectacular than this.

"You'll say thank you to me, I promise," it sounded like a threat; "And it would become a fantastic punishment for you. For beginning."

Christopher left his throat, grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked, having ripped off; the buttons were scattered around the floor. Then he realized he would take an effort to 'fix' the federal agent. He also understood he should've set aside his leisurely manner and move quickly: bring the first-aid kit and all other paraphernolia, the presence of which the FBI had no idea, but which would be wildly useful to stich wounds, sterilize them and stop the spreading of the infection.


	3. Fever

The sound of alarm clock reverberated around the room, notifying it was already 8 a.m. Not opening his eyes, Pelant, as usually, reached out his hand, but there wasn't anything under it, because he gave Booth his bed, while he has fell asleep in the armchair about two hours ago. And before it he got sick and tired of suturing and sterilize lacerations, wrapping some of them in bandages, of putting ointment on multiple bruises. Likely, Seeley didn't wake up during all these hideous procedures and didn't disturb him.

Unfortunately, Christopher couldn't prevent inflammation in the agent's body - the temperature was up. At first it reached 37,5 degree slowly and stopped, but then suddenly raised almost to 39. Besides, the agent was dehydrated, so Pelant put him on a saline drip. Yes, he had a broad hidden arsenal of medical supplies, but he wasn't used to deploy them for the greater good. It was kept here for his victims, for making them suffer as long as possible.

Pelant lowered Seeley's temperature to 37,0 degree with intramuscular injection, injected him antibiotics as well, and after that, having hoped that he estimated the dose correctly, he dared to took some rest, but as a result he fell asleep, having skipped three amounts of time when he had to take his temperature again.

"Good morning," Booth said, not lifting his head from the pillow.

"How long are you awake?" Christopher realized, looking at his crimson-colored cheeks, that situation has got worse and he shouldn't have to let himself relax. He flew up from the armchair, approached him and touched his forehead. Of course, it was hot as hell.

"About an hour ago, I guess."

He looked humble. His eyes got cloudy, lips dried; he was laying on his back, having fixed his sight at the ceiling, at it seemed like he was musing tensely about something. But actually he wasn't thinking at all, because thoughts were passing through his mind without a stop, they were flashing and disappearing, igniting and dissipating as sparklers.

"Why didn't you waken me?"

"You hasn't slept all night because of me, so I didn't want to bother you for no reason."

"Wow, so kind of you, I'm touched. No," the nervousness sounded in his voice. Pelant put his fingers on the agent's neck, probing lymphatic nodes, and the federal squinted from pain: they were swollen; "Is that what you call 'for no reason'?"

There wasn't much time at their disposal to wait until a thermometer would beep, so the criminal leaned forward and touched Booth's forehead again, now with his lips, having ensured his concern was true: taking into account all uncertainties, the temperature was hesitating near 39,5 degree - extremely close to proteins' denaturation processes, intravascular twitches and another lethal entertainments.

"What. The. Hell?!" Seeley said articulately, despite the agony that was surrounding him.

"Just so you know, it was awful, I didn't like it. And I absolutely didn't like that I had to undress you, because, as it turned out, you ragged your leg by tripping over a rebar sticking out of the land, or another stuff, I have no idea. And yes, thank you, Christopher, for saving my skin from those armed bastards!" his famous patience rapidly went away; he had never even got his voice up before, controlling every visible emotion, but now he was almost shouting.

Booth checked himself, while the criminal was sleeping, and noticed that it was only underwear remained on his body. But he could perfectly see his injuries and how thoroughly they were stitched. Every movement caused a surge of pain all around his body, even laying without an effort made him feel uncomfortable because of his lacerated back, but as far as his temperature was raising up, he was paying less attention to any sort of malaise. However, he wasn't going to waken Christofer: he didn't want to look more pathetic than he already was. And his words contained a huge part of truth, because he imagined how much time the criminal had spent with him and that he had fallen asleep comparatively recently.

"Have you done?"

"Yep," just a little bit more, and steam would come out of his ears.

"Are you okay?"

"No, but thanks for asking!" Pelant became winded up so strongly that he couldn't restrict his level of anxiety; "I don't want you to gone right in my house and much less I don't want to be accused falsely of your death by the reason of your carelessness and proud. Who would believe the truth? I swear Temperance'll consider that it was me who cut and stabbed her loved one and leaved him die cruelly, and everyone'll agree. No witness to prove the real story, no alibi - to me it's over. That's the goal you're reaching, aren't you?"

He took a syringe filled with antipyretic which he prepared before, but then put it down, having changed his mind. In the beginning he didn't doubt he could handle it by himself, but at present he wasn't so confident anymore. He got confused.

"Okay, wait a minute, I'm calling the emergency."

"What? No!" Seeley exclaimed hysterically.

The criminal bounced on the move, having got surprised, then stopped, turned back and glanced at him wide-eyed.

"It's not an offer, it's a statement. I'm sorry to freak you out, but you are on the verge."

"Even if so, we'd waste our time until the ambulance arrives, and we're wasting it right now arguing with each other. Well, I messed up, I confess that, but I'm assured you can fix it. Your medical skills and precision are credible."

Booth didn't desire to go to the hospital due to many reasons, and the main of them was publicity. Thugs have never changed their pattern, which meant in the next few days they would insistently ring up infirmaries and visit them in person. Needless to say, he could request a security and absolute privacy, but there still weren't any guarantees the information wouldn't leak: those guys knew how to persuade other people and solve issues.

"Why are you... What did you involve yourself into, agent Booth, If you'd rather stay with me then in a hospital?"

His question went unanswered.

"Okay..." Pelant was doing his best to not display his internal fuss; "I'm injecting you an antipyretic then, and antibiotics a bit after. I didn't expect you're so stubborn. Like a donkey."

_"And I didn't expect you're so pliant,"_ Seeley snapped mentally, with satisfaction, smiled and said aloud: "Great."

"Come on," the criminal told him to roll on his side, his back on him; "I'm informing you in advance, it'll be painful, but effective."

"I bet that's because you've got a bad hand."

Christopher sighed loudly and closed his eyes for a second, using his last ounce of strength to keep his trump calmness, but in the end he has thought briefly and said:

"Now I'm gonna take a needle twice as long and half as big, and put it with all my might right in your..."

"I got it, I'm being nice," he replied instantly and kept his word.

Pelant has finished with injection, and Seeley, despite the clear expectations, didn't make a sound. That was suspicious, so the criminal got anxious.

"Do you feel any pain at all," he asked, putting the syringe aside.

"Better than I'd like to. But it's nothing in comparison with what I went through in the war, for instance."

"I have no doubt," Pelant glanced at his watch and clicked his tongue, muttering under the nose that he would have to call work and take time off at his own expense.

Seeley immediately got involved in the conversation and asked if he really liked his work, to which Christopher replied: yes, he did. And on the classical accusations that his only purpose was to get a computers' access, he said that nothing prevented him to combine business with pleasure. He spent alone almost his entire life, and because of this he needed a way to communicate, to contact other people and to release the side of him that he prefered to peel off - his weakness.

"Why did you do that?" Booth couldn't keep silent anymore; "Why did you cover me? And why are you still helping?"

"Because I'm not like you," he has imagined in advance what to reply. He got around the bed and sat on its opposite margin; "You wouldn't even listen to me if I appeared on your threshold barely breathing."

"That's why I'm wondering."

"So, would you seriously slam the door right in front of my face?" Pelant continued. He anticipated to hear denial, excuses, everything else, but the agent didn't dispute his words, what was a little confusing.

"I can't say it for sure, but probably. What?" Seeley noticed his disdain sight; "Are you surprised I'm not going to lie about this? I just count it unfair after all you did for me.»

"You're right, and I can only appreciate that."

He was bursting with the willing to question him: _"Wherefore exactly would you leave me to die?"_. He intended to listen all the mess Seeley though about him, but he could scarcely force himself to save his breath.

"Thank you," it was time for Booth to tell him something apart from facetious snarling; "I know, it's just an empty phrase for you, but I'm being honest."

If he wanted to, he would start to narrate colorfully how he was feeling grateful to him for his act of mercy, for his decision to risk his own sleep, work and, finally, his life to cover a pathetic, worn out federal agent, and so on. Perhaps, it wasn't an easy choice: to save a man Christopher wished to kill. Or not to kill, who knew him. Sometimes it seemed to Booth that he couldn't find common ground with himself, and, moreover, he didn't even try to figure it out; he was moving forward in some separate, unknown space, without turning back or turning his head, he was striding straight and wasn't refusing to assay any insane idea in his sick mind.

And by this reason Seeley didn't add anything to his sincere 'thank you', because this word didn't require clarification default.

"Maybe, not so empty, if you're being honest," the criminal yawned and rubbed his face with hands; "Should I call Brennan? She must be worried, I suppose."

"No," he replied haltingly, and then respired; "I can deal with it by myself when I'll get better. Just... Just let the temperature get down."

He closed his eyes and sighed wearily, feeling a growing headache.

"As you wish, but I'm not sure you would have enough forces to be up soon. Don't you definitely need an ambulance?"

"Absolutely."

"Temperance would slaughter me for your death. In the best happened."

"Have you already buried me? You don't know me well."

"So, enlighten me," there was a little spark ignited in Christopher's blank eyes; "At least, that's how I can understand you're still conscious. Come on, when next time will you have a chance to gossip with your sworn enemy? Furthermore, you're my guest, but I don't feel comfortable next to someone I don't know quite closely."

"You have already dug up all the dirt on my secret records, haven't you?" Seeley smirked. It seemed to him almost hilarious.

"Yeah, but that's not what I meant, actually."

_Personal. He meant personal._

"Are you going to sit on the margin?" he nodded sideways.

"Looks like you're ready to tell me something," Pelant noticed, his voice filled with obvious cunning. He's laid near him, fighting with unbearable wishing to turn away, close his eyes and fall asleep until the afternoon.

"Depends on what would you ask me to tell about."


End file.
